


Guidelines

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If guides train sentinels, who trains the guides?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guidelines

Previously published in  _24 Hours_ (2007)

 

Well, it _had_ been a good idea.

Blair Sandburg’s shoulders winced as the level of invective coming from the bathroom briefly rose. Jim had stormed in there and slammed the door, cursing, several minutes ago, leaving Blair timidly waiting in the living room. He couldn’t help wondering what cure Jim was looking for in there; the only treatment he knew for ringing ears was time.

He finally sidled up to the bathroom door and called out, “Jim, I’m really sor—“

Jim’s voice rose, drowning him out, then the water went on. Okay, so Jim wasn’t ready to talk yet. Blair could accept that. It was sorta his fault, not that he’d known this would happen, but…what the heck was Jim running water for?

Okay, time to concentrate. Blair moved back to the couch and his notes, already regrouping. The test was a valid one, similar to Alvarez’s technique for testing the hearing range of primates. He’d borrowed the equipment from the Hearing Lab at Rainier and talked Jim into the test, only to have it unceremoniously cut off by a very angry Sentinel after a few minutes. Who knew the harmonics would cause ringing in the ears of someone with sensitive hearing? _Very_ sensitive hearing, true, but Blair had been very careful, starting with both extremely low decibels and frequencies. It should’ve worked… Blair re-immersed himself in his and Alvarez’s notes, looking for what could have gone wrong.

The bathroom door clicked open behind him, and Blair immediately looked up, fumbling his glasses into his pocket. Any hopes for a cooler Ellison evaporated at the sight of the twisted features of the detective, and the towel he flung carelessly by the bathroom door. Very un-Jim.

“Still humming, huh?” he asked sympathetically.

A steely glare. “Oh yeah. Any idea how long this is gonna last, Einstein, because when it drives me crazy, I’m coming after you first.”

Blair swallowed. It was a mostly empty threat; Jim had risked his life for Blair several times before, and would sooner hurt himself than Blair. But the anthropologist had also faced an out-of-control Sentinel before, too, one who didn’t know what he was doing, and it was not an experience he was anxious to repeat. Jim Ellison was always someone you wanted on your side, not against you.

Not to mention he was Blair’s friend. A good one.

“Ringing in the ears doesn’t usually last very long—it’s just the ear reacting to a sudden loud noise it couldn’t adjust to in time. The body’s pretty good at rebounding, so it should wear off soon. It usually isn’t…permanent.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed at him. “Permanent?” he repeated dangerously. Maybe he shouldn’t have added that last part, Blair thought too late. Why worry the man, right?

“Well, there’s always tinnitus, chronic ringing in the ears, but that comes from real damage. There’s no way the frequency you heard would have—”

But Jim wasn’t listening, already turned away and heading into the kitchen. Blair sighed, rising from the couch and following. He watched Ellison open the refrigerator and dig out a beer, then another to offer him. He took it, gratefully. So, Jim wasn’t _that_ mad. Frustration he was cool with; it was just Jim blaming him for everything that didn’t work that got old.

“I’m really sorry, Jim,” he said quietly. “I had no idea the equipment would cause anything like that. There’s no reason it should have.”

“Except I’m a Sentinel and that screws everything up.” Jim’s lean against the counter was deceptively casual, and he took a hard drag on his beer.

Bitterness—this was not a good development. Blair toyed with his own bottle, watching the rings it left on the counter top. “No, you’re a Sentinel and that makes your experience and reactions unique.”

“Unique,” Jim snorted. “Try freakish.”

“Unique,” Blair said patiently. “One of a kind. It’s actually pretty amazing, man.”

But Jim had apparently already shifted tracks and was now staring at Blair with that peculiar intensity that always made the grad student nervous.

“What?”

“What about Guides?” Jim abruptly asked.

“Guides?” He was starting to feel like a stupid echo.

“Yeah, Guides. Are they one-of-a-kind, too?”

Blair flushed, then went cold. “W-what?” he stammered. Was Jim asking if he was replaceable? Which, in all honesty, he no doubt was, but still, just like that, after two years? 

Jim impatiently set his half-empty bottle down on the counter next to him. “Brackett called you a Guide, like it was a title. Are they unique, too? C’mon, Chief, it’s not a hard question.”

But it was. He remembered Brackett’s name for him but hadn’t given it much thought before. Burton spoke of companions to the Sentinel, and Blair always figured that was what he was. But that was just coincidence, a happy meeting between a researcher and a subject. Right?

Which meant he wasn’t unique at all. Wholly replaceable.

“I don’t know,” Blair finally admitted.

He heard and felt Jim shift but didn’t look up to see it. “Sandburg, I didn’t mean…” An exasperated sigh. “I’m not looking for a new Guide, so

Blair did look up at that, his jaw slack with surprise. Guide tests? Was Jim pulling his leg, revenge for a test gone bad? There was a glint of amusement in the blue eyes, and lingering irritation about their earlier mishap. But also an honest curiosity. He really wanted to know if Blair was trainable.

The flash of resentment didn’t last long. Wasn’t that exactly what he asked regularly of Jim, to surrender himself to tests to train and control his senses? Now Blair had some idea of how it felt, like being a dog and having obedience school waved in your face.

He took a breath, swallowed again. “I-I don’t know. Burton didn’t talk much about the Guides…”

Jim was sipping his beer again, starting to relax. Maybe the ringing was fading. “All those books you have, nobody talks about Guides?” Heavy skepticism.

Blair’s palms were starting to get damp and it wasn’t from the sweating beer bottle. Was he talking himself out of a job here? “Uh, yeah, they do, I just sorta…skimmed those parts. There’s still so much we have to learn about Sentinels...”

Jim leaned toward him. “As long as Sentinels come with Guides, I think we need to learn about Guides, too.”

Oh, he did, did he? So spoke the mighty proponent of research, whom Blair had to bribe and blackmail to do tests that were for his own good. “’We’?” he asked pointedly. “Since when is this about ‘we’, Jim? I do the research and plan the tests, you try to get out of them. Isn’t that the way it works? Since when are you gung-ho to learn more?”

Ellison’s eyes narrowed. “Since the last test I took left me with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing in my ears.”

“Oh, so this is payback?”

Jim made a vexed sound. “What payback? I’d just like to know you know what you’re doing before I let you use me as a guinea pig again—that all right with you?”

Actually, it hurt. Blair stilled, gaze steady. It was the same calm he felt whenever someone he liked was breaking up with him. “You’re saying you don’t trust me.”

“Oh, for…” Jim threw up his hands. “Look, when you stop thinking this is all about you, then we’ll talk, huh?” He plunked the empty bottle on the counter and started to go around Blair, heading for the living room.

No, it wasn’t about him—it was about _them_. Guide and Sentinel, working together. Only, usually it was the Guide pushing and the Sentinel resisting, dragged along reluctantly. This time it was Jim taking the lead, asking for Blair to take a few tests, but why? Okay, Blair winced, so after that morning’s fiasco, Jim had a point about wanting to make sure Blair knew what he was talking about. It wasn’t as if he’d had a chance to interview Guides and choose the best fit; they’d sorta been forced on each other, or at least he on Jim. Maybe Jim wanted to see if there were other options.

But if two years of doing this together hadn’t made that case, how much would a few tests help? It wasn’t like Ellison didn’t know if he could do the job, or if he could trust Blair to be his Guide. And…Jim himself had rejected that idea. He usually didn’t come out and say it, but his actions over the years had actually spoken of a great deal of trust. He regularly gave himself over to Blair’s advice and guidance on the streets, about as vulnerable a place as you could get. Yeah, so he grumbled and hedged about it, but he did it.

So, where was this coming from? Revenge? Maybe a little—it would appeal to Jim’s sense of justice for him not to be the only test subject. Blair could live with that, but he doubted that was all.

Then again, if Jim felt it was that important for whatever reason, wasn’t that enough? Where was Blair’s trust now?

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Jim stopped, only a few feet away from him, and stared at him. “Okay?” Asking him to come out and say it.

Blair swallowed his last shreds of pride. “Okay. What kind of tests?”

It was Ellison’s turn to be nonplussed. He continued on into the living room, clearly a delaying tactic, and settled onto the couch, picking up a copy of _Sports Illustrated_ to flip through. “I don’t know—you’re the scientist. Think of something.”

Oh, yeah, real nonchalant, and totally unfair. Blair was shaking his head, hands sweeping a gesture of rejection as he stepped toward the couch. “Hey, no way, man. You’re the one who brought this up, you think it’s necessary, _you_ think of the tests.” He dropped into the chair beside the sofa and eyed Jim warily.

His roommate narrowed his eyes back, less a sign of annoyance this time as of displeasure over a task he knew he had to perform. This should be interesting. He continued to glare at Blair—or rather, at the wall past Blair—for a half-minute before his face cleared. “Your voice.”

“My voice.” Back to the dumb echo.

“Your Guide voice. The tone you use when I’m zoning.”

He had a Guide voice? Blair sat up, curiosity invoked. “What about it?”

“Well, maybe there’s something that would work even better. I don’t know.” Jim shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

Something else than what he used instinctively? Blair’s ego and self-assurance was shrinking by the minute. “Yeah, sure,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “We could go around taping different people saying ‘Snap out of it, Jim.’ Who knows, maybe you’d react faster to Dan Rather.”

Jim Ellison was not known for his patience. The magazine was tossed back onto the coffee table. “Forget it.” He stood.

Aw, his suggestion wasn’t being taken seriously—gee, Blair wondered how that felt. But Jim’s obvious frustration cut through his defensiveness. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d swallowed his pride or personal desires for the sake of his Sentinel. “Okay, look, I’m sorry. I’m just…not sure what you’re asking me here, Jim. Test my voice how?”

Ellison shook his head. “I don’t know—I was just trying to think of something. Just forget about it.”

“Actually, this probably wouldn’t be the best time for that, anyway, with your ears still recovering from before, but I’ll think about it for later, okay?”

“Fine.” Jim was looking like he was very sorry he’d brought the whole thing up and was impatient to drop it, but that hadn’t been quite what Blair had been aiming for, either. He had enough trouble trying to get Jim’s input into the whole Sentinel thing without shooting down the first idea the man had.

Blair cast about quickly for a counter-suggestion. “Uh…look, how ‘bout we do this. You give me a problem to work on, something you’ve been having trouble with, and I’ll figure out a solution. How’s that for a test?”

Ellison gave him a hard, inscrutable look. “I’m not auditioning Guides here, Sandburg,” he said stiffly.

No? Blair dismissed his automatic response. “This isn’t about proving my worth or abilities, Jim, it’s about…training.” The word was hard to get out. “Guides need to be able to find solutions fast, right?” He smiled but it felt strained. Why was he doing this?

Oh, yeah. So Jim would have a Guide he believed in. No matter what Ellison said, that was the bottom line. He trusted Blair to do his best, Jim just wasn’t sure Blair’s best was very good. For that matter, it was a concern Blair often shared, too. He’d had no formal preparation to be a Guide, nothing but a quick mind and a lot of research and good intentions. He probably knew far better than Jim just how much he was flailing in the dark sometimes. It just…stung to have Jim throw it in his face.

His roommate was thinking, turning around what he said, and didn’t seem completely happy with it, either. The man could be very hard to please sometimes. Blair was starting to feel the edges of worried desperation when Ellison slowly nodded.

“All right. I’ve been having some trouble with barometric pressure.”

Part of Blair was immediately excited by the newest issue of Sentinel senses, even as another part couldn’t help but wonder why Jim hadn’t mentioned it before. Of course, if he wasn’t sure of his Guide… He put his best sincere-interest face on. “Yeah? You mean when it changes?”

“Yeah. I can deal with it when it’s gradual, but when a storm rolls in and the pressure drops, it feels like this…weight on my head. Same thing when it rises fast—I feel a little…I dunno, lightheaded.” Vague hand motions accompanied the description.

Blair was intrigued despite himself. “Have you checked the barometer? You’re sure that’s what you’re feeling, the normal rise and fall of pressure?”

“No, I’m not sure,” Jim said with a touch of impatience, “but it seems to match the weather and the radio barometric reports.”

“Okay, okay.” Blair was already half-talking to himself, grabbing the nearest notebook and one of the pens off the coffee table. Jim had objected at first to the semi-permanent new homes for Blair’s notebooks and a can of pencils and pens, until he realized just how often the anthropologist was reaching for them. It was just one of the many, many compromises they’d made in their two years of working together.

“Look…it’s not a big deal, okay? If you can’t come up with a solution, I can live with it, and it doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re good at this, okay?”

Blair waved him off, hardly listening, busy making notes. “Yeah, sure.”

A pause, then Jim muttered something about needing something from the store, and a minute later the loft door closed behind him.

Which was when his words sank in and Blair glanced up, startled, realizing he’d just been apologized to and given a vote of confidence. Bruised feelings somewhat eased, he smiled faintly at the door and went back to his notes.

 

It actually wasn’t all that hard a problem, scientifically. Barometric pressure was literal physical pressure and, like the change of pressure in an airplane on take-off and landings, manifested itself most keenly on the fluid in the inner ear. Naturally, that effect would be magnified in a Sentinel, and Blair mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it before. One of those days he’d have to sit down with a doctor and go through each one of the senses and every stimulus that could affect it and physiological influence it could have.

But for now, the answers to Jim’s proposed problem were easy enough. The questions behind it were a lot harder.

Okay, so he wasn’t an expert on Guides. But at that point, he was probably one of the top people in the field of Sentinels, and that counted for a lot in what he did. He’d read and annotated and cross-referenced every scrap of information he could get on the subject, and used it as best as he could in the day-to-day tasks of guiding a Sentinel. Yeah, he didn’t always have the answers and sometimes he made mistakes, but on the whole, they’d done pretty well. And it wasn’t like there was some kind of Guide school or teacher he could apply to to fill in the blanks. He wished to God there were; sometimes Blair felt totally lost, and with Jim’s life on the line, he couldn’t afford to be. But what more could he do? Just what did Jim expect from him, anyway? It wasn’t like either of them had had a lot of options.

But maybe that was the problem. Jim hadn’t had any choice in his Guide, hadn’t even wanted the senses to begin with, let alone needing someone to help him use them. Maybe it was Blair he wasn’t happy with. After all, there was little question their paths would never have crossed, let alone led them to become friends and roommates, without the Sentinel thing.

Blair took his glasses off and dropped them on the table, feeling a little sick. This kept going from bad to worse. Soon he’d have talked himself out of there being anything keeping them together at all, and that was ridiculous. He trusted Jim more than anyone else he knew, including Naomi, not just with his life but with his secrets and embarrassments. Jim had seen him at and through his worst: after his hallucinations on the Golden, in his hysteria after being kidnapped by Lash, when Maya had broken his heart, twice. And he was sure Jim considered him a friend, too, though sometimes what that meant wasn’t clear to Blair. Ellison had had even less experience with trust and good friends than Blair, and didn’t always know how to treat one. But he tried.

Couldn’t he see Blair was trying, too?

Then again, as long as Blair knew he was doing his best, what did it matter what Jim thought? He’d done just fine without Ellison’s approval for twenty-seven years.

Except…what good was the Guide to the Sentinel if the Sentinel didn’t believe in him?

The question had settled like a rock in his gut, no closer to sorting out, when Jim’s key rattled in the loft’s front door. And Blair found himself as nervous as if he were a kid waiting for the parents to come home after he’d trashed the house.

Jim barely gave him a glance past the two grocery bags he carried, just dropped his keys with unerring accuracy into the basket by the door and kicked the door shut with his foot, then proceeded into the kitchen.

Blair stood, annoyed to find himself a little shaky, and crossed over to the kitchen counter, leaning against it as he watched Jim put a loaf of bread and some rolls in the breadbox.

“I found an answer.”

Jim just glanced at him again, one eyebrow rising. It was apparently all the reaction he was going to give.

Mr. Enthusiasm. Blair resisted a roll of the eyes. “What do you do when you’re on an airplane and your ears start popping when you take off?”

That at least earned a frown. “My ears don’t pop.”

He blinked. That was unexpected. And yet another puzzle to solve in the wonderful, wacky world of Sentinels. “Uh, okay, but what do they _tell_ you to do if you are having trouble with take-offs and landings?”

The frown deepened as Jim stashed bunches of produce in the bin in the refrigerator. The amount of fresh fruits and vegetables they kept on hand had grown considerably since Blair had first moved in. “I don’t know—yawn?”

“That’s one answer,” Blair moved in excitedly. “Swallowing a lot and chewing gum also help by balancing the pressure outside and inside the inner ear.”

A droll look this time. “I was a medic, remember? I know this stuff—I even had to lance an ear once in the field.”

Eew—too much information. Blair grimaced and went on. “It’s the same theory as barometric pressure. The pressure increase or decrease outside isn’t balanced inside and you feel pressure—like a weight, you said—or lightheaded as a result. We feel the barometric pressure changes all the time but usually they’re so small, we don’t even notice. Your increased sensitivity must magnify the effect.”

“Lucky me,” Jim said dryly, gently filling the egg tray with eggs from a paper carton. “So all I have to do is keep a pack of chewing gum on hand?”

“That’s probably the easiest, yeah. That way you don’t have to keep remembering to swallow and yawn.”

Jim put the eggs into the refrigerator and turned back to Blair with a grin. “Which would go over great during one of Simon’s departmental meetings. That’s good, Chief. Thanks.” And he moved on to the cans and the soup cupboard.

Blair stared at him for a long minute. That was it? _That’s good, thanks?_ What happened to tests and proving himself a good Guide? He cleared his throat. “Uh, Jim, I’m not taking anymore tests.”

Ellison didn’t pause for a second. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry if that means you can’t trust me, but I’m already reading everything I can find, and let’s face it, Sentinels aren’t exactly in the World Book Encyclopedia. If that’s not training already, I don’t know what is. I’m doing the best I can, but if that’s not good enough…” Then what?

The cans had slowed their ascent into the cupboard, then stopped, Jim staring at him with what sure looked like surprise. And then displeasure. Great, here came the lecture. “Sandburg, what... who said it wasn’t good enough?”

“Well, uh, you, but I understand. It’s hard—“

An upraised hand stopped him cold. “I don’t remember saying that. What are you talking about?”

And he truly seemed perplexed. Blair cleared his throat. “Okay, so it wasn’t those exact words, but asking me if Guides were one-of-a-kind and if I shouldn’t be taking tests, too…c’mon, Jim, what was I supposed to think?”

The cans were apparently forgotten. “How ‘bout just that I was curious? And a little fed up being the only one who has the pleasure of taking your tests, especially when they leave me feeling like I can hear the ocean in my ear.” He gave Blair a wry look. “Which is gone now, by the way.”

“That’s…that’s good, Jim. But what was all that about training?”

Jim actually looked a little embarrassed, and he let go of the can he’d been absently holding to move a step closer to Blair, to the other side of the counter. “It’s called sarcasm, Chief. As in, why should I have all the fun?” Blair must not have looked convinced because Jim’s voice dropped, no more teasing in it, and he was studiously looking elsewhere. “Look, I get impatient sometimes and I…say things, but that’s just me. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to trade you in.”

It was meant to be a joke, but there was something just as scared in his tone of voice as in Blair’s thoughts that afternoon. Could it be Jim had some of the same doubts he did?

Ellison curled a fist on the counter. “You know, if I were really unhappy, I could ask you to move out, or go find some other anthropologist or MD who might be willing to help me with the senses. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could do it if I wanted to.” He finally met Blair’s eyes. “But I don’t. I trust you on the job, in my house, and with the Sentinel thing. You’re my Guide—that’s my choice. Maybe I didn’t have one at first, but I do now. Are we clear on that?”

Blair nodded mutely, reeling from such a large, unexpected amount of confidence.

“Good.” Jim went back to the soup. Blair watched dumbly as a red-and-white Campbell’s can disappeared into the cupboard. “That’s assuming it’s still your choice,” Jim added almost as an afterthought.

And Blair couldn’t help but notice how white Ellison’s knuckles were around each can.

The rock in his stomach melted away as if it had never been there. How many times had they done this scene, he sure that Jim was about to throw him out, Jim afraid he was going to take off and leave him hanging? Did everyone have to reinvent their relationships like that every month or two, or was it just the two of them, relationship-scarred and not experienced in the whole trust thing?

“It’s definitely my choice.”

The grip on the last can eased, and Jim nodded once as he folded the brown bag neatly and stowed it under the sink. As if a similar rock of worry hadn’t just disappeared from inside him as Blair was sure it had.

He thought the conversation was over until Jim swung upright again and stared him straight in the eyes.

“But let’s get one thing straight. From now on, you need to pay attention to the Guide stuff in the books, too, got it? ‘Cause I’m starting to get the sense the Guides are a lot more important than you think.”

Blair nodded solemnly, than abruptly grinned. “I can do that.”

“Then we’re good. Now, how ‘bout a late lunch?” Not even a question if Blair had eaten or not. “I picked up some tofu and sprouts and some of that good roast beef, and I swung by the bakery for a loaf of three-grain—I figure we can make some sandwiches.”

“Sounds good.” He circled the counter to help.

And realized in the midst of spreading mayonnaise that there’d been more than one test that day for both of them. Either of them could have walked away from it, but instead there they were, companionably making sandwiches with all the trimmings for a shared meal. Apparently, they had passed.

Smiling, Blair let go of the thought and simply enjoyed the company of his friend.

The End


End file.
